Merry Metaphysical Misadventures, Morse!
by Muffinzelda
Summary: Yet another retelling of Dickens' A Christmas Carol, set sometime after Death is Now My Neighbour, looking back at Dead on Time and Masonic Mysteries before meandering through the days of Lewis.
1. Introduction

Disclaimer: This story is for fan purposes only. All characters are property of their respective owners (not me!) and are used here without permission. Without Charles Dickens, Colin Dexter, and the powers that be in the televised Morseverse, this story would not be.

Author Note: Happy Holidays! I know that I am not the first one to adapt Dickens' timeless tale for the Morseverse, but I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless. (Recommended reading: Princessozmaofoz's _An Oxford Carol_, filed under Inspector Morse.) There are five chapters to unfold over five days. Without further ado, I give you…

The miraculous and mysterious metaphysical misadventures of Inspector Morse, in which a misanthrope makes merry, mansucripted by Muffinzelda in the year MMXIV

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><p><em>Max de Bryn was dead. <em>This was what Morse thought to himself as he left the mortuary of Thames Valley CID. How many years ago was it now that he had lost his partner in forensic pathology? Seven? No, surely not that long. There had been several replacements as medical examiner, but this current one seemed like she was going to stay for a while- Dr Laura Hobson. He had gone to the mortuary on this Christmas Eve to see Dr Hobson concerning an upcoming inquest where she was expected to give evidence. Hobson had treated him to an icy stare as cold as the freezer where she kept the corpses. No joking around like Max might have- no, Max de Bryn was dead and buried.

Maybe Dr Hobson was frosty because she resented what may have been construed as an attempt by Morse to guide her testimony. She would never tolerate anyone telling her what to think or say. But, just as likely, she was angry at Morse. She had, in a rare moment of vulnerability, once asked Morse to comfort her and have a drink. He had refused her sweet pleas, instead seeking refuge with Adele Cecil, a woman closer to his own age. Hobson was young- early thirties- comely and intelligent; surely she could find much better company than Morse himself, he thought.

As he returned to his office, Morse brushed back a garland of fake pine that had come loose from the threshold. "Get this out of here, Lewis!"

"Yes sir," Sergeant Lewis answered obediently, though he had no intention of actually removing the decorations that WPC Tracy Hundley had hung in all the door frames in the main corridor.

Hundley herself walked into the office just then, sporting a pair of reindeer antlers on her headband. Morse rolled his eyes in disapproval. "Morning, Inspector, Sergeant." She chirped.

"Happy Christmas, Tracy!" Lewis answered, offering her a candy cane.

"Same to you and yours, Sergeant. I'm here collecting on behalf of the police benevolent association. We're looking for donations to help the poor pay their heating bills this winter. Do either of you care to contribute?"

"Sure." Lewis smiled at Hundley and handed her a folded banknote, then looked at Morse.

Morse just glared.

Lewis opened his wallet again and offered a second donation. "This is from Inspector Morse; he's short on cash today." WPC Hundley thanked Lewis and went to the next office.

"You owe me a pint, sir. Or an orange juice, as the case may be." Lewis, in a mirthful mood, decided that he could tease his boss.

"I owe you nothing, Lewis. Back to work."

Lewis couldn't help but laugh at his boss' demeanour. "Right, sir." Morse and Lewis had caught a nefarious drugs dealer in the act earlier in the week, but Morse wasn't content to have merely stopped a criminal. He wanted to prove the extent of his drug sales, so he had assigned his sergeant to analyse the dealer's financial transactions. Morse busied himself cracking the passwords on the personal computer of one of the drug dealer's victims. Cracking codes and passwords was Morse's bailiwick, but when it came time for anything dealing with an actual computer, he needed the help of Sergeant Lewis.

"I was hoping I could bang out a bit early this afternoon, this being Christmas Eve and all. When I'm done combing through this series of accounts, I mean. Got to help Mrs Lewis with the preparations for the feast she's putting out tomorrow. I'm a lousy sous-chef, but someone's got to make sure there's enough brandy in the hard sauce for the figgy pudding, if you know what I mean."

"Damn, I'd forgotten that you're off tomorrow too, aren't you, Lewis?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know that crime doesn't take a vacation, Lewis."

"Sir, it's Christmas. Come over tomorrow. You are welcome to join us, anytime you're up for it."

Morse stared at him. "No thank you. Believe it or not, I have plans."

"Ah, going to see your sister? Or Miss Cecil?" Lewis asked hopefully, though he knew on instinct that Morse was deceiving him.

Morse stared again. "Miss Cecil has left the country."

"Ah." Lewis prayed silently that Morse would not spend the holiday alone.

* * *

><p>Morse did go home alone, put on some Mozart, and sipped on egg nog with a potent dose of brandy. Shortly before midnight, he decided to retire for the evening. He snuffed out the candle he had lit in order to enjoy the music in a minimalist light. As Morse crawled beneath the blankets on his bed, he began to hear beeping. It started modestly, as if the battery from one of his appliances was announcing its imminent demise. But soon, every gadget in his home was chirping and Morse was powerless to stop it. Finally, the chimes on his grandfather clock peeled out midnight and silenced the rest of the din.<p>

Morse sat up in bed, attention rapt. Suddenly, a figure floated through the bedroom door. _I know that face! _He thought. _Max de Bryn! Can it be Max's ghost?_

"Hello, Morse." The ghost in the transparent guise of Dr de Bryn greeted him mournfully. Clearly, the ghost's form was Max, though it had none of his jovial manner. The shade of his late friend wore a chain that seemed to be made of scalpels, scissors, surgical clamps, and microscope slides.

"I refuse to believe any of this. You are a figment of my imagination. And too much egg nog."

"I am here because you and I have something in common, Morse."

"Yes, quite the swinging bachelors, we were. What, pray tell, do you have to warn me of, venereal disease?"

"Don't be daft, Morse. It's heart disease!"

"Ah. So, you're going to tell me to diet and exercise, lay off the drink, or else I'll share your fate?"

"No, Morse, that die is cast I'm afraid. But I am here to tell you to enjoy your time on Earth, be compassionate, and don't be such a misanthrope! Also- you should consider organ donation."

"Organ donation? Speak comfort to me, Max."

"That is not my job, Morse. You will be haunted by three spirits when the clock strikes one. They are your hope for salvation."

The ghost of Max de Bryn faded into the mist and Morse trembled in his bed.


	2. The Ghost of Christmas Past

A solemn spectre was awaiting Morse when the clock struck one. The ghost of Christmas Past had assumed the form of Desmond McNutt, dressed in the holy white vestments of Christmastide. McNutt, Morse's old DI, had always been a kind soul; he'd turned to the priesthood when he'd had his fill of policing.

"McNutt!" Morse exclaimed. "I… I'm sorry. You were murdered to frame me…" Morse trembled with chagrin as he remembered the fate of his old boss who died because he was all too willing to help his fellow man.

"Hush, Morse. It matters not tonight, for I am the Ghost of Christmas Past and we have places to be."

Morse allowed himself to be calmed, entranced even, by McNutt's eerily soothing tone.

"Follow me, Morse." Morse did as he was bid, but hesitated as the spirit walked through the wall.

"But I am mortal." Morse protested.

"Take my hand." The two phased through the wall and into a classroom at the Lonsdale College of days gone by. In the hand of a younger Morse laid a simple diamond ring. His young fiancée, Susan, had just left him for another.

"I wonder, McNutt. Would I have had made her as happy as Henry Fallon did? So many ifs… If she had been mine, and if tragedy had befallen our family, would she have been so consumed by sorrow that she would take her own life? No, I would never have let her do it. I would have wanted her to live!"

McNutt smiled. "I am glad to hear you say that, for you will revisit this moment. But there is no sense wondering about what might have been. These scenes are merely life's lessons."

"I was so miserable, spirit."

"But not all your Christmases were so wretched, Morse." His half-sister Joyce entered the scene.

"I've come to take you home, dear brother!" Joyce said as the young Morse embraced her.

Morse explained to McNutt. "Sweet Joyce may have come to take me home, but I always felt a stranger in my step-mother's home, even before my father passed."

"So you ran away to the signal corps. But you came back to Oxford, this time as a police officer. And there, you met another man who influenced you greatly."

Music was emanating from the home that the spirit and his ward approached. They phased through the door and immediately saw Win Thursday in a garish holiday sweater refilling trays of biscuits.

Morse narrated the scene for the ghost. "Ah, yes! The Thursdays' Christmas party- for the good folks down at the nick, the Inspector would say. Why Fred Thursday was a regular Fezziwig! There were goodies, punch and dancing..."

"I remember," McNutt said. "Even Chief Superintendent Bright came by with a fruitcake."

"That might be the happiest Christmas I ever spent." Morse reminisced.

They watched the scene play out. Young Morse retreated from the festivities to a side room, possibly because he was tired of watching Sergeant Jakes chat up Joan Thursday. Soon, the evening had come to an end and the Thursdays were standing at the door. Mrs. Thursday was extending well wishes to all as her husband hustled their guests out the door (also quite possibly because he was tired of watching Sergeant Jakes chat up Joan Thursday).

"But one guest remained," said McNutt. Young Morse had fallen asleep on the couch. Mrs. Thursday gave her husband a blanket and shook her head, for it wasn't the first time the constable had been unconscious on their sofa. Inspector Thursday put on his fatherly hat and covered the young Morse before helping his wife tidy up in the kitchen.

The phantom McNutt asked Morse, "did it cost Thursday much to take time out for the holidays? Did he lose your respect; did you learn any less from him because he shared out of the goodness of his heart?"

Morse shook his head in regret. "I.. I'd rather like to see my own sergeant now."

"Ah, I cannot show you that, for I am the ghost of Christmas past. Perhaps you are ready to meet the next Ghost."


	3. The Ghost of Christmas Present

Morse awoke alone when the grandfather clock struck two. He rose from his bed to search for the second heavenly messenger whose presence he could feel nearby. He carefully treaded downstairs and found her in his sitting room. She wore a green velvet hooded mantle, trimmed with ermine fur.

"Are you here to teach me the error of my ways, spirit?"

"Well, I'm not here for the bouncy castle." The spirit answered. She removed her hood to show her young face and her deep golden curls adorned with holly.

"Laura Hobson. But you're not dead!"

"No, I'm not. I am the ghost of Christmas Present."

"Fair enough. Take me where you will, spirit."

He touched her robe, and together they floated through Oxford. They hovered through a Christmas market with all the delicacies of the holiday on offer. There was much merriment as a choir sang. Morse stopped to listen, but the spirit tugged at his pyjamas.

"We have somewhere to be, Morse." He accepted her guidance and they floated on, through the door of a home decorated by an ivy wreath tied with an oversized red bow.

Morse instantly recognized the family of his sergeant Robbie Lewis setting the table for Christmas dinner. Lewis himself was staring out the window. His wife, Valerie, came over and handed him a glass of sparkling cider.

"Thanks, love. I only wish Morse would come. He's miserable and alone, I just know it."

"You can't force him, Robbie. You tried your best to help him; you always do." Val gazed adoringly into his eyes. He kissed her forehead.

Lewis' teenage son entered with the potatoes. "Honestly, dad, we're happier without that old grouch here. I don't understand why you put up with him."

"I won't have you insulting the founder of the feast like that, son." Mrs Lewis said definitively. Lewis put his arms around his wife's shoulders.

Morse rolled his eyes and spoke to Hobson. "Let me see here. Unless I straighten up and become more compassionate, Tiny Tim Lewis over there will lose a leg, or worse?"

"No, though there _will_ be an empty chair at future Lewis Christmases. But it belongs to someone else." Hobson nodded towards the lady who seemed so securely fixed in Lewis' arms.

"Surely not Val!" Morse exclaimed.

"God bless us, everyone, even Morse!" Mrs Lewis announced as she raised her glass.

"That can't be right!" Morse protested to Hobson.

"Do you mean to insinuate that I don't know death? I am the pathologist after all. You're the one who can't look at a corpse without turning green."

_Oh God, poor Robbie. _ Morse thought. "Spirit, why are you telling me this?"

"Every day, you are showing your sergeant how you live your solitary life closed off from others, save for the occasional pretty face, of course." She tossed her hair in an act of mock self-flattery. "But Lewis needs to be around the people who care for him. Would you have him shut everyone else out simply because there is no wife to care for him?"

"Of course not."

"Then show him a better example. Reach out to your own family. Don't be a lonely curmudgeon. He'll look to you, even after you're gone."

"But can I change Val's fate if I mend my ways?"

Hobson shook her head sadly, "no."

"Take me home, spirit." The idea of Valerie Lewis' demise burdened him terribly.


	4. The Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come

By the time the clock finished striking three in the morning, a new ghost had entered the chamber. He wore a black wool coat with the collar turned up and was smoking a cigarette. Morse knew his Dickens and remembered that the third spectre is to represent death itself, so he was surprised to see under the heavy coat a young blond-haired man. Sort of a grown up Tintin, Morse thought. Death puffed on a cigarette as Morse inquired sceptically, "am I supposed to know you?"

"No. I am the Ghost of Christmases yet to come, in the form of one James Hathaway- Inspector Lewis' future sergeant."

"What grim future do you have to show me, spirit?" The ghost pointed out the window. Morse saw a gravestone with his own name in the garden. He shivered, for he felt for the first time with certainty that this was no dream. One can't read in a dream, but there it was, etched clearly into the stone: Here lies Endeavour Morse.

"Come," beckoned Hathaway. Morse was glad to look away from his tombstone and touched the spirit's black coat. Together they floated through the floor to the downstairs level of Morse's home.

People were picking through Morse's belongings. The first individual Morse identified was his old friend turned boss, Jim Strange, looking through Morse's personal letters and pocketing a pair of handcuffs. In the next room, Sergeant Lewis was weeding through and disposing of Morse's collection of adult films. "I believe I'm done here, Lewis. How's it coming?" Strange asked.

"All right, I suppose, sir." Strange eyed the collection of erotica as Lewis continued. "I don't want Morse's sister to find this lot when she comes. She'll organize an auction for the rest of his belongings." Strange and Lewis were both there out of a sense of loyalty, yes, but Morse's shame was palpable in the room. It was Shame that Strange and Lewis did not want reflected on Morse's survivors.

"Spirit, show me that someone is not ashamed of me once I am gone." Hathaway obliged by taking Morse by the hand.

Morse and the phantom Hathaway floated through the wall and found themselves in a prison. Hathaway showed him the inside of a jail cell where a particularly heinous criminal was glad that Morse had passed.

Oh for Heaven's sake," cried out an exasperated Morse. "Show me some tenderness in death, please."

Next, they floated back to the familiar Lewis home, where Robbie was holding his nearly grown children tight as all three wept. "I went to see the vicar. There is a nice spot for your mum in the church yard. It's green and overlooks the river…"

"Val, again!" Morse grew increasingly distraught. "If I can't change this, why do you torment me so?" Hathaway said nothing but led Morse outside. Suddenly the air was balmy and a tropical breeze enveloped them.

"Palm trees? Where are we?"

"The British Virgin Islands, two Christmases later." They hovered up into a second story flat and saw a fake plastic Christmas tree, an empty bottle of rum, and an unshaven Robbie Lewis crying into the phone.

"I don't want to talk to you when you're drunk!" came the booming voice of Lewis' son through the phone receiver. Lewis hung up and barely managed to stifle a sob.

"This is hardly my fault!" said Morse, but he cringed in acceptance as he saw Robbie Lewis stumble towards the CD player, blast Wagner full volume, and then collapse into a chair. "Wagner, Lewis? Bloody hell." Lewis fingered a small container of sleeping pills, prescribed for him after Val died.

"No, dear old Robbie!" Morse cried out, though Lewis couldn't hear him. Morse lamented to the ghost. "My Susan lost her daughter, grandson and husband, then took her own life. Now you show me that Lewis has lost his wife and is going to end it the same way! Please tell me that this is a future that may be, not that will be. I repent and promise to be kind to my fellow man, especially Robbie Lewis. Show me that redemption is possible, spirit!"

The apparition known as Hathaway smiled smugly; this ghost did have a mischievous air to him, Morse decided. The phantom in the black coat took a puff of his cigarette and then blew smoke rings behind him as if to obscure the vision he had just shown Morse. "Do you promise to reform, sir?"

"Truly!" Morse closed his eyes to wipe them with the sleeve cuff of his pyjama shirt.

When he opened his eyes, Morse and the spectre of death were now in another flat. Robbie Lewis was there again, this time clean shaven but clearly aged. "My, he's grown old. Is it strange to feel relieved by that?" Morse observed Lewis as he was fidgeting about. "He's nervous about something, isn't he?" Hathaway nodded.

Morse watched as Lewis pawed through the records on his shelf. He was overjoyed to recognize some of his favourites had been retained by his erstwhile sergeant. Lewis checked his watch for the third time, and then retreated to the kitchen to pull a hen out of the oven. He was cursing at burning himself slightly when the doorbell rang. A blonde woman stood in the doorway, her hungry gaze fixed on the dishtowel around Lewis' waist. Could it be? Yes, the pathologist was older now too; with her hair shorter and blonder than it once was, but it was definitely her. No words were spoken between them, but Hobson and Lewis shared a knowing look. He removed the dishtowel and held it out, teasing her like a torero would a bull. She danced underneath the dish towel and once inside, she gave him a warm kiss that clearly exceeded the boundaries of collegiality.

Hathaway cleared his throat. "We should go now and give them some privacy."

_You've done it again, Lewis! _Morse grinned unabashedly.

* * *

><p>Author Note: to those of you who would tell me that <em>Intelligent Design<em> is not a Christmas episode, I say bah humbug! One final chapter to go...


	5. Conclusion

Sunbeams streamed into Morse's bedroom coaxing him out of a deep sleep. He threw off the covers and hastily threw on his dressing gown. Outside, people were bustling about. He ran outside and cried, "what day is it?"

"Morse?" None other than WPC Tracy Hundley responded. Morse never knew she was his neighbour! "Why, it's Christmas day, sir!"

"Happy Christmas, Hundley!" He thrust a wad of cash into her hands. "A goose! No, Val will have already taken care of that… But do you know the pastry shoppe on the high? The one with the massive gingerbread house in the window?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go buy the gingerbread house and have it delivered to Sergeant Lewis' home! The rest of the money goes to the police benevolent fund. Go, get a move on, young lady!" A very confused Hundley hustled along to complete her mission. Morse was confident that she would get it right, though, because Tracy Hundley was very particular and a stickler for details.

Morse ran back into his home to shower and shave, before presenting himself on his sister's doorstep.

* * *

><p>Joyce's modest family took pity upon the man that Morse had become, and though it was uncomfortable at times, there was true kindness in their hearts. After an afternoon of food, drink and awkward conversation, Morse rose and went to the piano. "Joyce, can you still play?"<p>

She smiled and rose to join him. Morse's gift to them was his voice; he led them in a round of carolling, then Morse's nephew suggested some more secular holiday tunes. Morse bristled at first, but he came around. Music- singing in a choir- had always been Morse's way of socializing, and this time his melodic voice eased the way for him to mend his familial relationships. Sitting there around the piano, he rediscovered the ability to harmonize with others.

He finally took his leave of Joyce and her family. "Come again soon, brother."

"I promise, Joyce."

* * *

><p>"I hope I'm not too late!" exclaimed Morse with glee when a surprised Sergeant Lewis opened his front door. Lewis let him into his front room where his family- wife, kids, and a bunch of those relations that he was always prattling on about- were merrily dismantling a massive gingerbread house.<p>

"This arrived on our doorstep today. Don't know where it came from. We've been admiring it all day and finally decided it was time to have at it. It seems a shame to eat it, but best to do it while it's fresh, I guess. You can't take it with you, you know?"

"Indeed, Lewis."

Mrs. Lewis came to greet her husband's governor with a mug of mulled cider. "Make yourself at home, Morse!" Morse helped himself to a frosted piece of roof and sat in an armchair by the fire. He laughed as Lewis dunked a piece of gingerbread into his mug before filling his gob.

"What?" Lewis asked.

"There's cider dribbling down your chin, Lewis. It's quite undignified."

"Oh, sorry, sir." Lewis was not aware the Morse was teasing him, so Morse responded by dunking his own bit of gingerbread and following suit.

Popping filled the air as the younger Lewises were tugging apart their Christmas crackers. Mrs. Lewis appeared to Morse once more and handed him a cracker.

"Go ahead, pull."

"I think, if you don't mind, kind lady, that I shall share this with another lonely soul who might appreciate it more. I must take my leave of you soon, for I have one more visit to make tonight."

"Of course! Send our best Christmas greetings. Would you like to bring your friend something to eat? I can fix a plate." Valerie Lewis suspected that there was no 'friend' and the plate was meant to be for him. But there was indeed someone else Morse had to see.

"No, that's all right." He stood up to leave. "Thank you, though, dear Val. Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year, Lewises!"

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><p>Late on Christmas Day, Morse found himself back where we began this Christmas odyssey: the mortuary. "Somehow I knew I would find you here, Doctor."<p>

Dr Hobson looked up from the report she was typing. "Happy Christmas, Inspector." She said in a perfunctory tone.

Morse considered Hobson. Might this independent career woman one day settle down with co-dependent family-man Lewis? Surely it had all been a dream anyway, and Val Lewis- fit as a fiddle- would outlive them all! But still, the idea of Hobson and Lewis rescuing each other in their later years intrigued him, the way he felt when he had perceived the first hint at solving a mystery. It seemed implausible at first, but maybe- just maybe- he ought to grease the wheels of fate just in case.

"Here, give me a hand with this?" Morse offered her one end of his Christmas cracker, consciously passing the baton as it were, from Val to Laura. She gave him a sceptical smile, unsure of where the cracker came from. She knew it was unlike Morse to bear such a frivolous gift.

As if reading her mind, Morse responded. "It's from the Lewises. I had just stopped by for a bit. He's a good man, Robbie Lewis. He'll make inspector soon; I'm sure of it."

Hobson nodded. "He's one of the best." She gave the cracker a fierce twist and apart it came. She bent down to collect the scrap of paper that fell out. She read it silently and looked up with a confused expression on her face.

"Well, what does it say? Bad pun?" Morse asked.

"I think it's a riddle. 'What do you give a new friend with a booming headache?'"

"I don't know, what?"

"Answer: 'a bag of kiwi fruit.'" She paused. "If that's supposed to mean something, I'm afraid I don't get it." Hobson said.

"That makes no bloody sense, now does it? Sod it all. Come on, Doctor, let's just find somewhere we can chat over some egg nog."

"Egg nog is awful decadent stuff, Morse."

"Fine, mulled wine for you then. And since you're so concerned about what I clog my arteries with, you can share with me your thoughts on organ donation, perhaps?"

"You want to discuss organ donation? At Christmas?"

"Indeed. You see, Doctor Hobson, I've been thinking about the future…"

* * *

><p>Author Note: Merry Christmas! I hesitated to write this because it's been done so many times before, but sometimes you just have to say to yourself, 'if the Muppets can do it, why can't I?' So I started to scribble, and once I realized that Thursday was Fezziwig, I knew there was no turning back. That part was probably better in my head than it came out in words because I don't have a good grasp on writing Endeavour. But in any case, I really had too much fun writing this. Thank you for reading! Best wishes for the New Year!<p> 


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